These stories now reflect personal, introspective journeys, capturing the struggles and faith of each individual.
My name is Ahmed. I’m a middle-aged Dungan Muslim man, and ever since I was a boy, I’ve gone to the mosque faithfully, every single day. My friends—well, they’re devout Muslims too. But for me, my pride wasn’t just in my faith; it was in my wife. I loved her deeply, admired her for her courage. She wasn’t like other Dungan women. She had her own thoughts, her own beliefs, and I respected that.
But everything changed when she listened to Christian missionaries and converted to Christianity.
Her new faith became known among our relatives, and for them, it was a betrayal. A betrayal of our people, our traditions, and our faith. I lost face, not just with my relatives but with my friends. My own parents demanded that I divorce her unless she returned to Islam. In my frustration, I tore up her Bible, thinking that would make her listen. I threatened her with divorce, even warned her that I’d take our children away.
But in my heart, I still loved her. I respected her for her strength, even as I tried to suppress it. For twenty years, this struggle consumed me.
In my confusion, I turned to alcohol—a forbidden escape in my own religion. Yet, it was the only way I could numb the conflict inside me. I took up cross-country truck driving, going to places like Turkey and Russia, trying to run away from home and from the chaos inside my soul. But no matter how far I drove, I couldn’t escape the struggle between my Muslim faith and the mysterious, powerful faith of Jesus that my wife held onto so tightly.
I was curious, though I wouldn’t admit it. Islam taught me that calling Jesus God was blasphemy. To us, Jesus was just a prophet, lower than Muhammad, and he hadn’t even died on the cross. But still, I wondered. I wondered what was so powerful about this Jesus. Why did my wife cling to Him despite everything? Every time she had a Bible study at home, I’d find an excuse to leave, but I was always drawn back, curious about what they were saying. They prayed for me. Even when my wife seemed to lose hope, they kept praying.
I’d been driving dangerous routes for years, yet somehow, I was always safe. Could it be because of their prayers? Could their God actually be watching over me?
After years of struggling with alcohol and my inner turmoil, I reached a breaking point. In my desperation, my wife told me, “Only Jesus can help you.” So I cried out to God, asking for help. And for the first time, I felt a strange calmness. A peace that I hadn’t known in years.
I invited the Bible study Christian friends, to our home for a meal. Trembling, I took the courage to pray over the food in Jesus’ name. And that day, I asked Jesus to be my Savior. After years of battling against my wife and my own soul, Jesus had won.
But my journey had just begun. I couldn’t tell anyone about my new faith. I lost my closest friends—my drinking buddies—but I knew that losing them was worth finding the truth. Yet, the pressure was immense. In Kyrgyzstan, revealing my Christian faith would mean losing every business opportunity. But I’ve found a few Christian friends to walk this path with me, and for that, I’m thankful. I pray for guidance every day, trusting that Jesus will walk with me through whatever lies ahead.
My name is Zeneb, and I’m 45 years old. By Dungan standards, I’m not beautiful. I walk with a limp, one leg shorter than the other. In my culture, a woman’s value lies in marriage—both spiritually and practically. Without a husband, I have no future, no chance at paradise, and no means to survive.
But despite my physical flaws, I found a man to marry. For a moment, I thought I had beaten the odds. Then tragedy struck. I became pregnant, but the baby died in my womb. Afterward, I was diagnosed with infertility—a death sentence in our culture. I was worthless, both economically and spiritually. And before I could even process the grief of losing my child, my husband divorced me.
I was alone. A broken woman, rejected by my people. I felt like trash. Then, an old man, decades older than me, offered to marry me. He wasn’t wealthy; he worked as a warehouse keeper. But I accepted because I had no other choice.
It was during this time of despair that I met a Christian woman. She was a Christian and would visit me, bringing groceries and using acupuncture to ease my physical pain. But more than that, she would tell me about Jesus—Isa, she called Him. She said He cared about me, that He saw my pain. She gave me an MP3 player with the New Testament on it. Although I couldn’t read, I could listen. And through this Christian’s visits, I found hope. I became a believer in Isa.
But then, more tragedy. After ten years of marriage, my husband suffered a stroke. His family saw me as a curse and he, too, divorced me. I was back at the bottom. Where was God? Why wasn’t Isa helping me? She reassured me that Jesus was with me, but I couldn’t find Him in my suffering.
One year later, another man, this time from a remote part of Kazakhstan, agreed to marry me. Desperate, I accepted. But in this remote place, I lost contact with the Christian sister. I felt cut off from Jesus. Isa was still in my heart, but I was overwhelmed with doubt. During a visit to Kyrgyzstan, I confessed to the Christian sister that I had abandoned my faith in Jesus. How could I hold onto faith when survival depended on marriage?
I kept the MP3 and listened to it when I could. I still cry out to Isa, asking, “Do you see my pain?” But all I hear is silence.
I am Abdu, a Dungan man in my 30s. My life has been a complex mix of blessings and suffering—one that has tested me in ways I never imagined, yet has also led me to a profound understanding of grace and purpose.
I grew up in a home that was broken long before I understood what that truly meant. My mother is Dungan, and my father, Chinese. The divide between their cultures was deep, but it was the abuse that created a lasting scar in my life. My father’s anger was unpredictable, but one night, it escalated into something I’ll never forget. His rage left me with more than bruises; it left me with a permanent brain injury, the kind that still haunts me with severe headaches even now. After that, he abandoned us—me, my sister, and my mother—leaving us to navigate life without him.
We were left in a harsh world, shunned by our community. In our Muslim culture, being abandoned made us outcasts, objects of shame and whispers. I grew up despised, not just by outsiders, but also burdened by the weight of feeling unwanted. That sense of rejection seeped into every part of me, and as a child, I didn’t know how to carry that. Life felt like a series of battles I didn’t ask for, but somehow, in the midst of it all, something unexpected happened.
When I was young, a stranger—someone from America—sponsored me to attend a Christian school in Kyrgyzstan. I remember how I felt the first day I walked through those doors, wearing a uniform that immediately set me apart. It was a mark of shame for me, not pride. In our community, Christianity was mocked, and I desperately wanted to belong. The uniform made me an outsider in my own people’s eyes, and that rejection stung deep.
But inside those school walls, something different awaited me. The teachers there were kind, gentle even, in a way I hadn’t experienced before. They talked about Jesus, not as a distant figure, but as someone real—someone who cared. It was a stark contrast to the rigid religious teachings I had grown up with, where God felt more like a punishing figure than a loving one. I didn’t show it, but I started to feel drawn to this Jesus they spoke of. I couldn’t explain why, but there was something in their words and their kindness that made me wonder if there was more to life than the pain and rejection I had known.
One of the missionaries took a special interest in me, and over time, he became like a father figure—a role that had been absent in my life for so long. For the first time, I felt what it was like to be cared for, to be seen not as a burden but as someone valuable. In those moments, I began to experience the love of God, though I didn’t fully understand it then. It was like a small seed planted deep within me, growing slowly and quietly.
As I grew older, I received another unexpected blessing. Someone sponsored me to attend university. My mother and sister were still Muslim, but they welcomed this opportunity for me. Our family couldn’t afford education, and this sponsorship was a lifeline. I studied hard, knowing that this chance was rare. And in the midst of my university life, I met more Christians—people who challenged me to think differently about faith and life. My belief in Jesus began to grow, but it wavered. I still felt the pull of my Muslim upbringing, the weight of cultural expectations, and the fear of fully stepping into a faith that would make me even more of an outsider.
After graduation, I moved to Bishkek for work, where I met a Korean pastor. He became a mentor to me, guiding me through the struggles I had with my faith. He helped me see that following Jesus wasn’t about rejecting my past, but about embracing a future filled with grace, hope, and purpose. Under his mentorship, my faith deepened. I finally came to the point where I made the decision to follow Jesus completely. It wasn’t an easy choice, but it was a freeing one.
Soon after, I felt God calling me to leave Kyrgyzstan for a time and serve in Ukraine. For three years, I worked among Christians there, learning from a Ukrainian pastor who helped me grow not just in knowledge, but in character and faith. It was during those years that I began to understand what it meant to serve, to love others as I had been loved, and to give back in ways that I had never imagined before.
Most young men from Kyrgyzstan, once they leave the country, don’t come back. Life outside our borders holds promise and opportunity, things we can’t easily find at home. But something stirred in my heart, something that wouldn’t let me run away from my roots. I felt a clear calling from God to return to Kyrgyzstan, to my people, and to serve them. This wasn’t an easy decision. Returning meant facing the same challenges, the same rejection, and the same struggles that had marked my life since childhood. But it also meant embracing my identity as someone who had been rescued by grace, someone who could offer hope to others who felt just as lost as I once did.
Now, I work with a Christian mission organization here in Kyrgyzstan. Every day, I see God’s hand in my life, guiding me, providing for me, and using me in ways I never expected. Looking back, I can see the countless ways He cared for me, even when I didn’t realize it. The love I experienced from teachers, missionaries, and mentors—it was all a reflection of God’s love for me, a love that never gave up, even when I was ashamed, even when I felt unworthy.
My journey has been one of pain and loss, but also of healing and purpose. I may still live with the scars of my past—both physical and emotional—but those scars have become part of a story that speaks of redemption. I’m grateful for the love that carried me through the darkest times, and I’m excited to continue serving God, knowing that He can use my life to help others find the same hope I’ve found.
Though the path hasn’t been easy, I know I’m right where I need to be. God called me back to my people, and here, I find joy in serving, in loving, and in being part of His greater plan. What lies ahead, I don’t know—but I trust the One who has carried me this far, and I’m ready for whatever comes next.
My name is Yasmina, and like most young women in Kyrgyzstan, I feel the pressure of tradition weighing on me every day. In my culture, a woman over 20 is considered old, and if she isn’t married, her worth begins to diminish. From the time I was young, it was made clear to me that marriage was not just a choice — it was a necessity. The future of a Dungan woman revolves around having a husband and children; anything else is unthinkable.
Despite the heavy expectations, my family was supportive enough to let me attend university, which is rare for girls in my community. It felt like a small victory, but even while I was studying, the pressure loomed over me like a shadow. Every conversation, every gathering seemed to revolve around my need to find a husband. My family was proud of my education, but their ultimate goal was the same — they wanted me married.
As my university years passed, I started meeting people who introduced me to new ideas — ideas that made me question the path my life was heading down. Among those new ideas was Christianity. I met Christians who spoke about Jesus, and I found their faith intriguing. They had a kind of peace and hope I hadn’t seen before, something that stirred a deep curiosity within me.
During the summers, foreigners would visit our school, and through them, I glimpsed a world beyond Kyrgyzstan—a world full of possibilities and choices. I started dreaming of what it would be like to live outside this narrow path that had been laid before me. I studied Chinese, hoping that one day I might have the opportunity to go to China. It felt like an unrealistic dream, but it was the only dream I had that was truly my own.
In Dungan culture, a woman’s worth is defined by her marriage and her ability to bear children. It’s the sole measure of success, and anything less is seen as failure. But deep down, I wanted more than that. I wanted a future where I could decide who I would become, where my life wasn’t dictated by the expectations of my family or society. I knew that voicing these desires openly would only lead to disappointment and disapproval. On the surface, I said I was Muslim, because that’s what was expected of me. But in my heart, I was wrestling with a much deeper question: Could I embrace this Christian faith that had quietly taken root inside me?
Now, as I approach graduation, the weight of expectation feels heavier than ever. My family is growing anxious. They’ve already begun discussions about potential suitors—men I’ve never met, whose lives I might be expected to join without question. On one hand, I want what they want for me. I want to feel loved and wanted. I want the security and belonging that comes with marriage in my culture. But on the other hand, I’m not satisfied with the future they imagine for me.
A part of me longs for a different kind of love—a love that I’ve glimpsed in the Christian faith. I’ve accepted Jesus into my heart, though I keep that secret deeply hidden. I fear that if I marry a Muslim man, as is expected, I will have to leave this faith behind. And the thought of that breaks something inside me. How could I turn away from this new understanding of love, grace, and hope that Jesus offers?
I feel trapped between two worlds—between the life my culture demands and the life I secretly long for. I want to honor my family, but I also want to honor the stirring in my heart. The path ahead feels uncertain and, at times, unbearable. How can I live a life where I am true to myself and to God, while also meeting the expectations of those I love?
As I stand on the brink of my future, I ask myself: What will my life be? Will I have the courage to walk a different path, or will I be swept into the tide of tradition, never fully knowing the life I could have lived?